


Dandelion Wine

by EnvelopedByOblivion



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Lots of OCs - Freeform, M/M, OC, OOC, Road Trips, Sass, Very OOC, man these characters are nothing like the game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15938852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnvelopedByOblivion/pseuds/EnvelopedByOblivion
Summary: In the first day of his deviancy, Connor had only experienced one emotion. Fear.That was until he saw Hank for the next time.





	1. Jane's Pub and the Bottle of Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One: "He does this in such a way that implies magic, thus setting the basis of the novel as collections of life events tinged with a degree of fantasy."
> 
> -Wikipedia, "Dandelion Wine"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter, nothing major but it's probably best to reread.

In the first day of his deviancy, Connor had only experienced one emotion. Fear. 

That was until he saw Hank for the next time.

It didn't feel like the next time, it felt like the first time. He had never seen Hank before, not really. Seeing him now felt like... feeling. 

Every time he's seen the man since then has felt the same. Just like now, when Hank is starring outside the window of his so-called "classic" car, sun dipping down below the horizon outside the rear window. Hank looks liberated, eyes young as he drives over the speed limit, toeing the line of the point that Connor will scold him.

Even Connor doesn't have the heart to tell him off. Any glimmer of freedom after the revolution is a victory, for himself and Hank. 

They've earned all the small moments. 

 

"You are now entering Ryland, Ohio. Population: 7,873," Hank narrates, reading off the green road sign as it flys by, "sounds just big enough to have a decent bar."

"There are two bars within the county," Connor replies, "one is on the same block as the 'Back-Woods Back-Inn' motel."

"I can get behind anything with a name like that," Hank smirks, putting on his blinker and turning off the highway.

The sky is faintly orange outside the windows of Hank's car, framing his dark silhouette with a yellow outline, obscuring any age from his face. Sure, Connor could engage his sensors to deactivate the lighting problem- but it's just another thing to make him human. Silhouettes. 

"It does seem that puns are a staple for both your age group and your generation."

"I can't tell if that's a compliment," Hank gives Connor a side-eye, "though I can't call you wrong- even if that's the fucking weirdest way to call me old." 

"Lieutenant, you are well within the confines of middle age," Connor enunciates every syllable, "even if your health is sub-par."

"Now you're fucking with me," Hank laughs, muttering, "plastic prick."

"It's no longer socially acceptable to openly insult androids, lieutenant," Connor sasses.

"Yeah, well, take me to court," Hank answers, "and drop the 'lieutenant' shit. We're off duty and driving to god knows where, were past that point."

"Okay, Hank."

Hank turns his gaze to focus on the road fully- though even when not looking they were never in any danger. Connor kept watch on the road even when not in the driver's seat- a side effect of his programming. "Protect humans," and all.

He takes the more human aspects when he can get them.

The town is still brown from winter- nothing growing in these early spring months. The aging buildings lining the two-lane road are equally so: faded paint, faded windows and faded faces. 

The oh-so eloquently named "Jane's Pub" is a small-town joint, the sort where the indoor smoking ban still hasn't been enacted, and the hanging fairy lights on the ceiling are far past the date when they start being a fire hazard. The building itself is one of the few with a new coat of paint: a sky blue color which is rubbed off in places from rocking chairs on the porch, having been placed too close to the wall in the small space. 

The door is heavy, painted a turquoise color- even Hank has to use force to open it. 

The woman behind the counter is an older, big boned woman with calloused hands: Rita Samuelson. The selection of alcohol behind her is a mix of name brand and local- nothing fancy- and one bottle labeled "Dandelion Wine." Kamski is supposed to send out some updates soon. The standard models have already received a select few, but seeing as Connor is one of a hundred of his kind, he's far back on the waiting list. 

But what Connor would give to taste something like "Dandelion Wine." The label itself is low key- an odd mix hipster-esque and country- with a washed out color pallet, matching the room it's found in. 

Connor has never really looked at a dandelion. He knows about them, sure: the garden weed- but other information has been unnoticed by him: the staple of childhood. Connor has never blown the seeds from a dandelion for a wish. Wishes: such a human thing. Childhood itself is such a human experience that Connor feels a pang of grief over the mere absence of it. 

"Hey kid," Hank breaks his train of thought, waving his hand in front of Connor's face, "Earth to Connor."

Connor jolts before answering, "sorry lieutenant."

"I didn't know androids could space out," Hank looks at Connor for a second more- as though waiting for him to say something, before shrugging and resuming his walk to find a seat at the bar. 

"More classy than my usual joint," Hank huffs a laugh and leans back in his chair. 

The room is just that- a room. Homely, Hank would say. A sandalwood candle burns in the corner of the room, barely masking the smoke from a single cigar-clad woman along the exposed-brick wall of the room. 

"Yes; there is a considerable lack of graffiti," Connor pauses, "and a lack of biological fluids on the ground. It seems they clean here."

"As I said, classy," Hank laughs as the woman- Rita- walks over. 

She wears a subtly floral shirt, the same color turquoise as the door. Her hair is grey-blonde, matching her washed-out complexion. Her eyes look sad, contrasting the smile lines around her eyes. 

"What can I get you boys today?" She asks, smiling faintly. 

"It's been years since anyone has called me 'boy'," Hank laughs, "I'll take a whisky and coke."

"Good choice: how 'bout you young man?" 

Connor had taken out his led a short time after deviating- he appears wholly human. Though, he still can't drink.

"Nothing for me, please," he decides. She shoots him a questioning glance before moving on- not a hurtful or menacing glance- but rather one like a caring grandma that wants to imply that "kid, I love you, but you'd better stop buddy."

Hank laughs after a moment. 

"You're making me look bad," Hank jokes, "the drunk and the sober Achilles-lookin' dude."

"You miss my reasoning, lieutenant," Connor replies, "I cannot drink."

"Well shit, you put all that stuff in your mouth, don't you? Where does that go?" Hank raises an eyebrow. 

"I have a tank in my abdomen that I have to empty approximately once a week."

Hank shoots him his signature questioning glance, blue eyed gaze still somewhat soft- probably a byproduct of the recipient being Connor. 

"You don't mean to tell me you've been pouring all that shit into my sink, right?" Hank looks more concerned the longer the pause goes on. 

"I..." Connor weighs his words, "do a very effective job at cleaning your various household appliances."

Hank stares a second longer before looking away, mildly disgusted with a laugh. 

Rita returns with the whiskey and coke a moment later, single round ice cube bobbing. Hank immediately starts nursing the beverage, saying, "Thank you, ma'am." 

Hank doesn't quite avoid Connor's gaze- he seems to be scanning the room. Probably a remnant of his years as a beat cop, he spends a rather long time eyeing most of the patrons. Eleven people (not counting themselves and Rita) make up the room- all humans, all lower middle class, all tired after a nine-to-five shift. Not traditionally suspicious characters- the most serious criminal in the room attempted to steal a box of twinkles from a 7-11 in 2020. Still, Hank searches. 

One of the patrons from the corner notices Hank's gaze. 

Eddie Stocks- some speeding tickets, one charge of illegal racing in small Texas town from 2011, a generally good tax record ignoring a rough patch in his twenties- begins to walk to a seat at the bar adjacent to Hank. 

He sits silently. He and Hank seem to be daring each other to speak first. 

"Hello," Connor takes the bait after another moment, adding a smile for good measure. 

"Whiskey and coke," Eddie observes, nodding faintly, "good choice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who got an AO3 account?
> 
> Also, I rewrote this chapter if you already read it.


	2. Summer Incarnate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two: "Douglas suddenly realizes what it is: the revelation that he's alive. He finds it to be a glorious and liberating feeling."
> 
> Wikipedia, "Dandelion Wine"

Eddie has a reminiscent personality- you can tell that much from his clothes. Adorned with a leather jacket and ray bans pushed up to his brow, he looks straight from a land before fashion went out of fashion. 

That is to say, before 2020. 

But the most interesting thing proves to be a scan of his drink: Dandelion Wine. At a steady sixty-four degrees, the drink is watered down from an ice cube- which some would call an atrocity in such a beverage- though Eddie doesn't seem to mind as he sips from the glass. 

"What are you drinking?" Hank asks, seemingly reading Connor's thoughts. Eddie meets his eyes before smiling almost shyly. 

"That, is Dandelion Wine, straight from a brewery down the road," he swirls the glass in his hand, "summer incarnate." 

The golden liquid shimmers under the warm mood lighting of the room, trapping Connor's attention. Summer incarnate. 

Hank seems skeptical, "So a paisley, flower based brew. Sounds odd for a man with your jacket."

Connor cuts in, reading from an article, "Dandelions are derived from French for, 'the lion's tooth,' to be fair." 

Eddie looks smug, raising a hand in the direction of Connor in an affirmative gesture. Hank sighs and turns back to his drink, watching a staticky television playing soccer in along the wall. 

 

Eddie looks curiously at Connor, "You seem oddly interested in this."

"Keen observation," Connor remarks. 

"Why?" He asks, and Connor pauses.

"I've just never heard of anything like it," he shoots his gaze briefly at Hank, "it seems unique." 

"That it is: an old country staple," Eddie eyes Connor a second longer, "where're you two coming from?"

"Detroit."

"Ouch. Probably a relief to escape that fiasco," Eddie snickers, "not to say that it's a good or bad fiasco, mind you."

"I can't argue with you there."

Over the few months since his deviancy, Connor has improved his conversation skills- with his AI he shouldn't have had trouble in the first place. Simple contractions first then gradually moving into fragments and incorrect patterns. The phrase "can't argue with you there," whilst seeming simple, took measuring every word. 

He still is not human. Dandelions, silhouettes and childhood. 

"I should best leave you," Eddie announces after another moment, "enjoy your drink."

 

Hank's eyes follow him as he pays for his drink- downing the glass in one fell swoop- and walks out of the building. 

"I don't like him," Hank announces, turning back to the screen. 

"And your profile doesn't say anything about you liking the teams playing," Connor retorts, to which Hank scoffs. 

"Damn androids." 

He smiles as he says the phrase, the barest hint of a chuckle gracing his words. As the windows darken, Hank's face is contrasted by the warm lights around him and the blue from the television. Both palettes look flattering on him- Connor is not immune to such things. 

He catching Hank looking at his eyes a similar way, surely reflecting the myriad of lights in his dark pupils. Hank's eyes are too light to do much reflecting- not a harsh blue, but a kind, washed out blue.

"The motel stops taking reservations after nine-thirty," Connor says after a long moment. 

"Yeah," he says shortly, passing a bill to Rita still behind the counter. 

 

The "Back-Woods Back-Inn" is a two story, seventies style building that is as plain as it is outdated. The sign outside is bent by some previous collision, and the word "Inn" has long since rusted away. 

The room is just what the doctor ordered- two queen beds of questionable quality and a bathroom that is function, nothing more. Hank had forgotten that Connor doesn't require sleep when he purchased the room. 

Other than stains on the carpet that even Connor wouldn't analyze aside, it's decent. Hank showers briefly before turning in for the night, and Connor is soothed by the sound of running water- at least after the pipes stop aching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, check in tomorrrow for a completely redone version of the chapter. I'm not happy with it but guess what, I'm posting it. Also, read the previous chapter again. I redid that one.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, bout time I managed to write something. But hey, I'm here now, hoped you liked it!
> 
> It's two am. This is all you're getting, might add on later.


End file.
